


Composer, Conductor

by duckduckorangejuicerobertdowneyjr



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27906652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckduckorangejuicerobertdowneyjr/pseuds/duckduckorangejuicerobertdowneyjr
Summary: Reyer takes home Don Juan Triumphant's score, believing its composer to be long gone. He was wrong.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Reyer
Kudos: 8





	Composer, Conductor

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to come out months ago oops

It finally seemed as though the mob had given up. After hunkering down within the passage beneath the throne for far longer than he would have liked, the sounds of shouting and smashing petered out above him, and eventually it was the victorious whoops and the vanishing footsteps that calmed his wild nerves. The mob had had their fill, content that the Opera Ghost was gone and would be unable to return.

He did return, though.

Erik sat on the seat at the ruined organ, and just sat there. Sat there, watching nothing, feeling nothing, knowing nothing. The sheets in front of him had been ripped to shreds in his short absence, what hadn’t been torn was gone entirely, burned, or stolen, or thrown into the lake. Years' worth of writing, just gone. Like that. It was amazing how something could take so long to grow and nurture, just to meet a sudden and violent end.

He crossed his arms, laying them down over the torn parchment and letting his head rest upon them. An ungentlemanly, ungainly posture for sure, but there was nobody to see him now.

From his spot, he took in the rest of his fallen kingdom. The candelabras were knocked to the ground, their flames extinguished underwater. The gondola had been smashed, stuffing ripped from the pillows that rested upon it, and its pole nowhere to be found. His books had their chapters ripped from their spines. Even the great portcullis that had once protected and separated him from the harmful hands of the outside world had its mechanisms stripped to allow the mob access, leaving it wrenched into the air on broken joists.

He let one hand drift to the instrument below him, yet he knew before he pressed down upon the key that the instrument had taken the blunt of the mobs' anger. The note it produced was discordant. He fingered out a few quiet notes of his masterpiece. The melody was unrecognizable.

His other hand curled in on itself, his teeth bit down painfully on his swollen lip, and with a sorrowful howl he leapt up and swiped the few remaining candles off the top of the instrument. It would take months to fix this, months, if not years. Then they would still know where he lived to tear it all away again. He had to leave, but he knew nowhere else to go.

He slammed his hands down upon the organ, forcing a squealing symphony from broken keys, then with another wretched yell pushed away from it, falling to his knees.

The music box, even the little music box was gone.

He was upon his elbows now, staring at those skeletal, calloused hands. These hands that held her close as she struggled, these hands that penned flowing melodies they all despised, these hands that felt the ring slip on them as she returned it to him, then turned away.

Should these hands take his life, now? There was nothing left for him on this plane.

Christine would not want him to. She would beg at his feet for him to stay breathing. She was the epitome of goodness, purest of heart and intention.

He allowed himself a second to recall her face filled with fear, how she would sob when she learned of his death.

He must keep going.

He turned to the gate, ready to travel down the flooded pathway and leave this broken place, and instead met the shocked expression of a burly man he could not recognize with similar fear and confusion. They held gazes for a good few seconds before the Phantom turned on his heel and dashed like a madman to the trap-lined exit, harder to navigate but certain to keep them off his trail.

“He's over here!” The man behind him shouted at the top of his lungs, then sloshed through the water. The Phantom had an advantage!

Erik slid to a halt at the stone wall, pressing in the correct panel to open the door.

Nothing happened.

The Phantom had only a millisecond to be confused before footsteps were upon him.

He twisted in place, hand ripping the lasso out of his coat pocket and throwing it round his pursuer's neck. For a brief moment Erik was sure his aim had failed. The man staggered and fell right at the Phantom's feet, barely having time to claw at the rope before he was strangled, and in Erik's line of sight came at least four more men, all decidedly larger than him.

So be it.

The first man to reach him received a swift punch to the jaw.

He leaped the steps three at a time, long legs making longer strides with the remains of the baying mob not far behind him.

With a hairpin turn he escaped into one of the rooms hidden behind a false wooden wall. The planks that hid the hallway clapped back into place behind him.

It was only there that he calmed, hidden in complete darkness. The sounds of yelling came nearer, then were right outside the hiding spot, light filtering through the boards, then vanished down the end of the hall. His hiding spot had gone undetected.

Erik shimmied around in the small saferoom, eye adjusting to see a stairway forming in the dark beyond. He remembered now; this was the pathway he took to retrieve the staff paper for his masterpiece.

The sound of voices came near again, and so the phantom began ascending. It was a way towards escaping the opera house, and as his ribs ached from where one of the mob men tackled him, it was good enough for Erik.

-+-

Monsieur Reyer was getting the _hell_ out of this damned place. He was putting in his resignation. No, no resignation would be needed! The managers would just have to suffer his sudden absence, because he was _not staying here_.

Despite all his attempts to leave the opera as soon as possible, terrified of the darkened corners, he was held back by policemen demanding witness testimonies, and the churning, frightened crowds closing in around him in the hallways. It took half a grueling hour for the sea to clear.

The Phantom had murdered Piangi in cold blood, and kidnapped Christine Daae.

Calm. Try to calm down.

He took a great breath, slowing his pace to his office, edging his way through the thinning crowds. He could still hear the echoes of the ghost's sudden proposal to their lead soprano, booming, yet light.

_Terrifying._

Now long after Don Juan, the proposal, Piangi’s body hanging behind the sheets, the gunshots- He just wanted to go home.

The evening crowd opera had mostly cleared by the time he arrived at his office to retrieve his things.

The door was still shut as he came back down the familiar hallway, the gas lights only barely illuminated. His hand went to the doorknob. Then he froze.

A sound.

After a few seconds, he heard it again. There was a slight rustling coming from beyond the door.

Reyer began to tremble, though he was sure it was just officers looking for any more of the ghost’s passages to seal. He allowed the door to creak open, letting in a small stream of light, ready to work around the police.

Reyer stalled, dumbfounded.

The office was decidedly dark and disappointingly, empty.

Reyer stood there in silent shock a few more moments, waiting for any sign of movement, but the office remained still. He was positive he had heard something. He knew it, but…

There was no one here.

A chill ran up his back, freezing him further in place, as thoughts of a ghostly apparition flickered through his head. A white mask, or a ravaged face suddenly appearing before him, to kill him or drag him away.

But nothing happened. No specter leaped out at him, no noose came to grab his throat, no disembodied voices or music from the walls. He was alone.

 _A rat_ , he thought. _Likely just a rat, or a mouse. They often come into my walls more than others for whatever reason._

He trudged further into the office as cautiously as possible, inching through the darkened room to turn on the lamp within. Now in the light, it was far clearer that no one besides Reyer was in the room. _A rodent. Just a rodent scratching within the walls._ After tonight, it would no longer be his problem.

He gathered up his most valued books, his files and documents, then, after checking his fob watch, decided he should only take a few books tonight, and retrieve the rest tomorrow.

As he turned to exit, a red shape laying dropped in the corner of the room suddenly caught his eye. Reyer startled momentarily, before noticing that it was merely the master scorebook for _Don Juan Triumphant_ , handed to him by the managers almost three weeks ago. The book all copies of the score had been made from.

A score that was, no doubt, forever cursed. But a score with such fantastic sounds... such new and creative melodies. Something so complex even a chorus of some of the most talented musicians could not understand its genius.

A score that’s composer had to be long gone by now.

…The theatre would certainly not miss it. The managers might even beg him to remove it from the premises.

Reyer slipped the red-clad book under his arm along with the others to take home.

The miniscule crowds thinned out further as he left the opera's block.

Occasionally, a passerby seeing the direction he came from would ask him what the hubbub was about at the opera. He impolitely ignored them.

The gaslights along the Paris street cast the city into hazy yellows. Reyer walked at a fast pace, eyes up at the cloudy skies.

To think that the managers didn’t even approach him after the disastrous opera ended, though he doubted he would stay, even if they tripled his salary.

If Reyer stayed, who knew if he would be the next innocent to die?

He hopped the step into his flat, a neat little apartment a decent distance to the opera house, easy enough to stroll from in summer, and cab from in winter. The space was not large, but not too small to fit the grand piano his father had purchased for him as a gift for his 20th birthday. He locked the door behind him. Now with his opera salary, he could likely afford a better piano, but oh, he had just quit, hadn’t he? The piano held too much sentiment, anyway, to give up.

 _Oh._ He'd quit the opera. Only in the silence of his home did Reyer begin to consider his impulsiveness. But wasn’t it justified? He set the lot of the books down upon the bookshelf, to be organized later.

The heaviness of the situation forced his body down on the sofa in the great room, trapped collecting his thoughts.

Conducting and music were his life! He has, _had,_ a job at the finest opera house in the world, playing the most exquisite scores, and now snapping sounds punctuating the melody quickly overwhelmed the music. Piangi was dead. He knew the man quite well, and the man largely did his job well enough. He was a genuinely good person. _Was_.

Reyer stared up at the wooden ceiling.

The flash or red caught his vision again, and the rush of recollection from what occurred mere hours ago filled him with regret.

With sudden fear he rushed to the shelf, slid the crimson book from the stack, and walked upstairs. Only In the safety of his bedroom did he slide the talisman away, into the safe that held his savings, hidden behind a painting.

With the thing out of sight, he indeed felt better, now far more tired than scared. Thunder pealed outside. Reyer lazily prepared for sleep.

It was nighttime.

His bedroom was pitch black, and Reyer could hear the distant sound of freezing rain drizzling down on the walls and roof. Echoey, nonsensical with sleep.

At the point between unconscious and aware, reality was warped. He slightly adjusted his laying form on the bed and snuggled further into a decorative pillow, head lulled towards the room. What had woken him, again?

“You took it here with you, I know you did.”

Reyer could almost recognize that voice. It was a strange voice. Reyer could not tell if it was a tenor or a baritone. He wanted to go back to sleep.

“And now, you should best hope you have not thrown it away.”

Reyer was barely listening.

He distantly heard the flick of a gas lamp. This drew his attention more than the gentle voice, and he opened his eyes ever so slightly more, his own lashes clouding his vision.

The lamp was drawn low enough to not cast light beyond its orange flame, but Reyer could see half a pale face in the glow, contrasting the blackness. The rain softened a bit, then started up again, one black eye watching over him, the other blue as moonlight in a white-hot expanse.

“Go back to sleep.”

Reyer did.

Reyer woke slowly, stomach growling, the bedroom lit only slightly by cloud-covered sunlight through the windows. He was incredibly tired, despite sleeping the whole while.

He rolled over on the bed, settling into a different position, when the memories suddenly flooded his head, and he shot up.

There had been a man in his house. A man _speaking to him_ in his house.

Reyer couldn’t recall what the voice had said but he could just snatch fragments of its perplexingly smooth tone. He recognized it now, oh did he recognize it.

He threw his legs out of the sheets, wrapping his arms around himself, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes.

While one part of him shook in fear to think of it, the other tried conjuring up images of the nightmare. He recalled a flash of white- that was all.

A dream! It was all just a dream. Right? The mind was a strange thing, coming up with such lifelike visions.

A new, physical flash of white caught his attention and he snapped back to reality, looking down.

There was a letter on the nightstand beside the bed.

Reyer began to shudder, recognizing the design as one from his own study.

He glanced around the room, eyes resting upon the oil lamp sat upon a table near the window, and for a split second he recalled it being lit. There was no sign that anyone else had entered the room, though, and he most certainly had not been the one to light it.

 _Alright then_ , Reyer thought, strangely calm for the situation at hand. He would read the letter, then bring it to the police when he went to them. Then he would change his locks and move far, far away from this whole city. The parchment made little sound as he slid it from the envelope.

_Dear Reyer,_

_I beg your pardon for violating the sanctity of your home, however it has come to my attention that you possess the original copy of the full scoring of Don Juan Triumphant._

_As the creator of the piece, it would please me greatly if my work would be returned to me. Please find your way back to your office in the theatre as soon as you have finished reading this letter, and ensure that you bring Don Juan with you._

_I remain your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

No words could describe how foolish Reyer felt walking back into the theatre he swore he would never return to. Words could also not describe his terror at returning, at the phantom's behest, no less.

He’d nearly had a heart attack after reading the letter left for him. But he dare not disobey.

He was halfway up the grand stairway when he heard his name being shouted happily from the top of the steps, and Andre came near-tumbling down them, the relief palpable on his face.

“You came back, oh thank goodness!”

Andre’s arm slipped around him, and practically dragged the conductor up the steps.

“Oh, Monsieur Reyer, you have no idea how worried we were that after last night’s fiasco we would lose _all_ of our most valued staff…”

 _Valued enough that Mlle. Daae was used as bait_ , Reyer wanted to say. Instead, he gently removed himself from the manager's lead.

“You must forgive me, Monsieur Andre, but I've only come to collect my things.”

Andre's face plummeted at his words, similar to his appearance when the Phantom struck again. It was almost enough to make Reyer reconsider. Almost.

Andre stuttered, “but, Maestro!” he glanced around, exasperated, “Tell us what you need to stay, anything! A raise? Personal security? Name it. We can assure you the Opera Ghost is long gone!”

Reyer shifted the book from under one arm to the other as he pondered, and Andre finally took notice of his possession. His eyes went wide.

“Is that… Don Juan?”

“-Monsieur Andre, I will be sure to inform you whether or not I wish to stay once I have gathered my things. Good day.”

Before Andre could get another word in, Reyer had turned towards the direction of his office. Truly now, his nerves could not get any worse. He was thankful that Andre did not pursue him.

The door to his office was closed- as it always was. Reyer listened outside it for a bit. He heard nothing. After a few more moments of deliberation, Reyer uttered a soft prayer, and decided to meet his fate. He pushed the door open.

The room was dark, just as it had been yesterday, but for a split second there was a small reflection of light in the black, gone before Reyer could focus on it. He suddenly, very much wanted to leave. His courage had been abruptly abandoned.

This was foolish, so beyond foolish! He should leave. He should throw the book within, forget this whole horrid affair, and save himself. Was he truly supposed to walk into this trap like a lamb to slaughter?

 _Yes_ , his mind supplied.

Swallowing hard, Reyer shuffled towards the gas lamp in the suddenly claustrophobic room. The moment the light flicked on the door to the office slammed shut, and Reyer yelped aloud, stumbling over his own feet and into the wall.

He recovered swiftly, turned to face the now-lit room, and felt his blood run cold. The ghost was standing behind his desk. His gaze, which had been focused on Reyer’s papers, now drifted to the conductor himself.

For what could’ve only been a minute at most, but felt like hours, the two regarded each other in stiff silence, Reyer frozen in place, and the Phantom standing casual and polite.

The ghost’s expression was unreadable, half his face covered by a white piece of cloth wrapped tightly around his head. From a hole cut in the fabric was the pale blue-pink of his eye, reflecting the lamplight. The rest of his attire matched perfectly what the stagehands and ballet girls often spoke of: evening dress. Where his ghostly mask had gone was beyond the conductor.

The surrealism of the situation now took its hold on Reyer, and the mix of adrenaline and oddity encouraged Reyer in a way that made him feel like he was about to do something foolish.

The Phantom thankfully broke the spell first.

“Monsieur Reyer, I'm pleased to know that you received and read my note for you.” He stepped around the desk, slightly closer, and Reyer was further mortified by how the Phantom towered over him. “Now then, I do happen to have some questions for you, _maestro_.”

The Phantom took great care with the word, speaking it with velvet in his voice. Reyer shifted the score again, the Phantom’s eyes following the book.

Reyer cleared his throat. “...Go on then,” he whispered.

“ _Don Juan Triumphant_.” He started. “Did you really suspect throwing it away would go unnoticed?” The Phantom laughed, “Did you have to retrieve it from whatever gutter you disposed of it in, shaking with fear at the Phantom’s warning?”

All of a sudden Reyer’s calm terror was replaced with high arts indignation. “’Throwing it away?’ You thought _I threw it away?_ Why on earth would I throw away a score such as this? Do you think me _mad?”_

The Phantom was taken aback. And it was in that moment that Reyer realized just what circumstance he was in. This was Piangi and Bouquet’s murderer he had just berated, but this was also the writer of _Don Juan_ , the work Reyer considered a masterpiece for the weeks before it was performed, and even now afterwards. Here was its composer, standing before him. In his office, in fact. To most musicians, meeting an “idol” of theirs like this would be a dream come true.

The Phantom only paused for a moment, before his lip curled from beneath the corner of the fabric. “Do you think lying to me will improve your odds?”

Reyer did not ask what odds he was speaking of. “I’m not lying.” He stood as tall as he could against the ghost’s height. This was a very bad idea, part of him screeched.

The Phantom swiftly replaced his cold fury with a smug sneer.

“I seem to remember searching your home, when I visited. Yes, I looked high and low in your marvelous little apartment. _Don Juan_ was not there.”

“Well, you should have looked harder. It was in my safe.”

A pause. “In your safe?”

“It’s behind the painting in my room!” Reyer near-shouted. He then realized he had given the extortionist the location of his life savings. At least the Phantom didn't look smugger at the revelation. If anything, he seemed confused. The ghost stood back, throwing his head to the right, looking lost in thought. He shook himself, and his gaze once again became cruel.

“What were you planning, then? To sell ‘the ghost’s opera?’ Storing it in your safe to prevent someone like-minded from stealing it to do the same?”

“Of course not! I... ehm.” Reyer struggled with his words. How could he explain to the Phantom that he had taken the opera out of appreciation for its art? The Phantom’s eyes narrowed at him. “I enjoyed the melodies- the uniqueness. I've never heard anything like it before, and I wanted to make sure it wouldn’t be lost to time.” His words rung with truth.

The ghost’s anger, once more, dropped away entirely in a split-second.

After many moments of intense staring, the Phantom seemed simply resigned. He held out a hand, gesturing, and Reyer hesitantly passed him the opera. The ghost shook his head, a great sigh escaping him as he moved the book under his own arm. The two men locked eyes a moment longer.

“I heard your discussion with that imbecile on the stairway,” the Phantom huffed, backing away towards the desk once more. “Monsieur Reyer,” Reyer shifted his feet. “It would be best if you kept your position here, at the theatre.”

It felt like a truce, but also, a cold demand.

How could Reyer refuse? The Phantom knew where he lived. Reyer nodded slowly, gazing after him as the ghost drifted back behind his desk.

A loud knocking on the door caused Reyer to jump nearly six feet in the air. He rushed to answer it, before remembering the company. He turned to the Phantom.

The Phantom was gone. Without a trace or sound, he had vanished into thin air, exactly like the stories told, leaving Reyer in his office alone.

The knocks sounded again, and Reyer opened the door to reveal Andre, who seemed just as startled as he was.

“Ah, Monseiur Reyer! I was hoping you hadn’t left yet! Have you, ahem, decided, yet?” The hopefulness in his eyes increased tenfold when he noticed the distinct lack of packing going on in the office.

Reyer brushed his moustache with his left hand, contemplating. He had much to lose, didn’t he? ...Didn’t he?

“I think I will be staying,” Reyer said aloud before he could stop himself. Before he could get another word in, Andre was practically cheering.

“Oh, excellent! It would have been a terrible, terrible loss to no longer have our splendid conductor,” Andre’s hands clutched Reyer’s shoulder sportingly, then Andre was quick to walk off before Reyer could bring up musings of a raise.

In the growing sounds of the Opera becoming more active with visitors and rehearsals and drama, Reyer recalled the Phantom’s silky tenor, and a note from long ago referring to the chorus Reyer himself assembled as “entrancing.”

**Author's Note:**

> Developing story! Stay tuned.


End file.
